


The First Rule

by bugchicklv



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugchicklv/pseuds/bugchicklv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You remind me of someone," Steve says...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [THIS IMAGE](http://pics.livejournal.com/bugchicklv/pic/0001wbba/s640x480) of Scott Caan.

Usually, Steve's single minded focus is a good thing--when it's aimed at someone else. It's why he's a scary good investigator, a crack shot, and always manages to catch the bad guys. But something about the way his partner is staring at him has Danny a little on edge.

As if he wasn't _already_ on edge around Steve, what with the threat of imminent violence hanging over their heads and the danger of grievous bodily harm coming to him any time he walked out the door with that man.

But right now, Steve's sprawled in the office chair, his legs stretched out taking up more space than should be allowed by another human being, thank you very much. And he's staring, with his hands resting on his chest, fingers steepled and tapping slowly against those lips that Danny dreams of wrapped around his cock.

Danny looks away quickly, hoping that Steve can't read him as well as he does the suspects they question. It already takes everything he has not to turn around and ogle Steve's blatantly displayed crotch.

"You remind me of someone," Steve says, finally, and Danny winces.

"God, I hear that all the damn time," he chokes out. "Usually it's in a bar as some chick is trying to get in my pants but still… It gets old, ya know?"

Steve shrugs, "No, not really," and Danny can't tell if it's because he's never been hit on by a chick, at a bar, or mistaken for someone else. At any rate, Danny knows he needs to deflect this conversation away, quickly.

"So, after work you wanna hit the gy—"

Steve snaps and then jerks upright. Rocking forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and looking straight at Danny, says, "See, it took me a minute to figure it out, but…"

Oh shit.

Here it comes, Danny knows he's about to be busted. That his partner is about to call him out and won't that make for an awkward conversation? With bated breath Danny waits, that sliver of metal in his pocket practically burning him…

*****

Damn.

It took months to get an invitation to this place and three cabs from the base, but finally Steve sees the infamous red door. It was hidden well, not something you accidentally stumbled across--or necessarily wanted to in this area of town--but he'd heard about the club in Bangkok. Nothing but vague whispers, and over heard conversations in dark corners but it had been enough. Once he knew he was headed back to the East Coast, he absolutely had to visit.

Steve knocks twice, pauses and then knocks again; handing over the email when the tiny slat opens and a tape-wrapped hand emerges. Pulling the edges of his leather jacket together against the biting wind he waits, wondering if maybe he has the wrong address. Just before he turns to go, he hears the latch turn and the door creaks open--where the tallest, widest, most intimidating man he'd ever seen waves him inside, those muscles practically bursting out of the sweat slick skin as he flexes and moves.

"Welcome to Round Thirteen."

Steve steps into the dimly lit corridor and, after "accidentally" rubbing against the man as he passes, idly wonders if the rest of him is that big.

While the New York City air outside was cold and wet, the air inside is hot and stale; it's layered with perspiration, smoke, blood and a just the slightest hint of come. It was exactly how he imagines heaven might smell.

Taking a deep breath, Steve walks around to get the lay of the land. He automatically notes the exits, the potential for cover, anything that could be fashioned into make-shift weapons and then looks to the occupants in order to asses who might be a real threat.

Satisfied with the innocuous findings, he turns that SEAL training toward scoping out the competition. To him, the half-assed matches mostly look like foreplay. Well, a normal person's foreplay, not his. Even when it looks like the combatants are actually trying, the "fights" still appear too easy, too restrained.

Contrary to his subordinates' popular opinion, Steve knows he's a control freak. It was how he remained sane: Things had to be _just so_. While that might have applied to practically everything in his life, it didn't extend to sex. No, sex was the _one_ place where he felt free enough to be himself, to let go. Of course, most of the time he had to buy that release; there was no way in hell could he trust some one-night stand to know what he wants, what he needs--not after the last disaster.

Dumb shits ought not to advertise for things they had no experience in, let alone knowledge of.

After a quick recon he realizes that he doesn't belong here either, that he's put a little too much faith into the mistaken idea that this would be the right place. He turns to go, irritated with himself and with the delusion that he would find the right partner here or that he could finally find the release that has eluded him for months.

It's on his way out that Steve sees him.

To the casual observer, the man is nothing special. He's a little too short, a little too rangy, with a pissed off attitude that smacks of condescension and impatience.

Except, Steve sees something different. Steve sees the potential, the tightly controlled power of those compact muscles and it's all he can do to keep breathing.

 _In. Out. In. Out._

Steve lets himself stare at the man; that fuzzy Mohawk screams 'fuck you' and 'I don't care what you think,' but the hair on his lightly furred chest and abs is neatly trimmed, belying the indifferent attitude. Steve is intrigued even more by the contradiction, and finds a good vantage point from which to watch the ensuing match.

The tall Latino doesn't pull any punches but the little guy gives just as good as he gets. And boy can he fight. To Steve, the moves look to be those of an untrained boxer—a street scrapper with no real style but lots of power in those fists. Most enticing, is that something about how he moves says that he could easily take down the bigger guy, but that smile shows how much he enjoys the cat and mouse game.

The punches land, jabs fly--nothing too dirty, just knuckles and an occasional elbow--but a few teasingly-short minutes into the match, the opponent seems to give up, lets the holds last a little longer than expected. After the third attempt to hump his leg, the scrapper pushes the quitter off. He looks a little disgusted and Steve starts to worry that, despite its reputation, maybe he's gotten the wrong impression of this place.

He didn't need to fret long.

"Hey, Fuckwad! You want your reward, then you better put more effort in it than that." The little guy looks down, arms spread wide. "Shit, my dick is all soft now. We'd have to start all ov--You know what? Nevermind, get out," he says, throwing up his hands in irritation and then pointing to the stairs at the side of the ring.

Bad-Ass Latino is clearly pissed; he grabs his crotch through the loose denim and starts rubbing obscenely as he struts forward, his jaw jutting. "You know you want some of this, Papi. How 'bout you get down on your knees for me, eh?" The man snorts, and then teases, "Wait, you wouldn't have to." His cackle echoes through the warehouse as he looks around for support at his joke, finding none. In fact, the few that gathered to watch seem to be collectively holding their breath.

Mohawk rolls his eyes and huffs. "Yeah, short jokes. That's a real turn on." A perfectly executed round house to the chin shocks the hell out of Steve and knocks the asshole to the floor. Squatting close to the downed man, he leans over into the pained face and then yells, "I said get out!" pushing him to the edge where the sore loser rolls off the mat and slinks away.

Steve has the feeling the man got off easy. And judging by the way most of the others are looking at the guy right now, getting off easy here is going to be very difficult proposition in the near future.

"Nice job, Will!" someone calls and it's refreshing to finally have a name.

Impressed, Steve turns to watch the little guy towel off, surprised to feel slightly jealous of the fabric as it slides across those bare arms. Will rubs the towel over his head a few times, making that Mohawk stand up like a rooster's comb, and then runs it down to scrape across his chest, seeming to linger a little longer than absolutely necessary on those pebbled nipples.

"I got next."

Steve doesn't even know where the _hell_ that comes from, but he can't take it back now.

Will tilts up a sports bottle and squirts water into his mouth--an interesting image which does all kinds of things to Steve's dick--then swishes it around. He leans forward onto the rungs and Steve feels those blue eyes slowly rake across his body as if appraising the challenge. With a shrug, Will spits to the side--missing the bucket by a mile--pushes off the ropes, and with a grudging jerk of his head nonchalantly replies, "Whatever. Let's go."

With his heart racing Steve mounts the steps, trying to get into his training headspace; but the closer he gets to the other man the more Steve can smell him, can almost taste that salty, sweaty, hot skin and it's distracting. He climbs over the ropes and then tries to loosen up some by rolling his shoulders, stretching his head from side to side to pop his neck; he jumps up and down to get his blood pumping toward anywhere north of his groin and viciously thumps his cock-head a few times hoping to take the edge off. Steve takes a deep breath in order to center himself and then turns around with his fists up…

And gets punched in the face before he's settled into a defensible stance.

Will grins and mocks, "Waiting on a bell or something?" As Steve shakes it off, rubbing his jaw, the other man bobs and weaves, then continues, "Ha! No rules or refs here, bitch. Still think you can hang?"

That mouth sets Steve off, and while he'd really like nothing more than to tackle this little shit to the mat and fuck him hard, that punch awakened something Steve thought long dead—and his training finally kicks in. Despite his achingly hard cock, he feels his heart rate begin to slow, his breathing even out.

This is familiar, this he can do. This is exactly what he's been searching for.

With an eager smile, Steve responds: "Oh, I can more than hang, brah."

For a few minutes they dance around, feeling each other out, getting a handle on what skills each might be hiding. Will aims for the body a couple times, probably gauging Steve's response and recovery time, while Steve throws few fake jabs that repeatedly have the other man feinting to the left. Then, Steve lets loose with a left cross that connects.

It's been a while since he's sparred bare knuckled but he revels in the bliss of pain that shoots up his hand to his arm.

Will's tongue snakes out to lick the blood off his swollen lower lip, and smiles. "Nice. What else you got?"

Several volleys of kicks, punches and sweeps have them both breathing hard and heavy and once again Steve is surprised at the level of skill Will possesses. The fight is more evenly matched than he thought it would be, but Steve is a SEAL. There's shit in his repertoire that could kill a man and it takes a lot of concentration to keep that part of him in check. Concentration that he should have been focusing on Will since he's lost track of the man's hands and feet long enough to be tossed to the mat and pinned pretty well.

He has to swallow a few times in order to speak, the hand clasping his throat and holding his head back is that tight. "Krav Maga?" he squeaks. "Seriously? Who the fuck _are_ you?" Steve asks, confused and awed, with his dick aching more than it ever has in his life.

Will doesn't let go of the hold, just settles Steve between his legs, and then wraps them around Steve. With a free hand, he slides down Steve's abs and into his pants to grab at his throbbing cock. "Shhhh," the quiet whisper ghosts over his skin and, closing his eyes, Steve shivers. "Evidently, I am exactly what you need." Then he tightens that grip, presses an equally hard cock against Steve's ass, and pulls.

Just like that Steve comes.

Before he can even catch his breath though, Will is up and walking it off.

Perplexed, and more than just a little disappointed, Steve starts, "What about—"

"Nope," he's cut off. And that's when Steve notices that Will managed to snag his dog tags. He makes quick work of removing one and then tosses the other one back. Rubbing it between his finger and thumb like a worry stone, Will looks him in the eye and finishes, "This will do."

Steve is slow to get up, pissed now at being used like that and a little embarrassed that everyone saw it, but still watches as Will pockets that tag and walks away.

"Don't worry about it," someone says. "He just got married. Won't cheat on her for nothing, even a hot stud like you. I on the other hand…"

It takes a minute to pull his gaze from that tempting backside, but a finally relaxed and sated Steve recovers and then smiles.

"No thanks, I'm good," he answers. And for once he actually means it.

****

Steve snaps out of it, the memory still heavy in his mind, and jerks upright. Rocking forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and looking straight at Danny, says, "See, it took me a minute to figure it out, but…"

He pauses for dramatic effect and that's when he feels the tension practically rolling off of his partner; notices that the man's _haole_ skin is even paler than usual and he worries that maybe this isn't the time to bring it up.

The fear Steve used to hide once he recognized Danny as Will, the uncertainty of what it could mean for their team and their friendship is so clearly, painfully reflected back at him from Danny's eyes…and he just can't do it.

Instead he grins and answers, "That guy on _Entourage._ You know--the loud mouth asshole."

It takes a minute for Danny's brain to catch up but the relief is palpable. "Yeah. Ha ha, asshole," he snarks, tossing a balled-up, empty donut bag at him before tucking himself back into the paperwork.

Steve catches it one handed and throws it into the trash, comfortable with the status quo.

For now.


End file.
